Definitionally
by Nostalgian
Summary: Belarus, Russia, America and all the usual demons. Done in a surrealist style.


All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** De-anon from Kinkmeme.

Prompt was "Texts from last night: my brother came home with a bottle of vodka and his pants off. we're gonna spend more quality time together." So I went on a vaguely surreal route. It's told very strongly from Belarus' view, and she's not really all there. None of them are really.

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><p><em><strong>Definitionally.<strong>_

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><p>Belarus stroked Russia's hair.<p>

One hand. Five fingers. Too many strands of hair.

She picked up some of his bangs, dropped them and they fell back onto his face. She pressed her fingers into the hair and ruffled. She thought about many things.

About clapping hands. About Russia stroking her hair. About ribbons; ribbons always made her cry; even though nobody could see it, didn't mean they didn't. Belarus' eyes welled up with tears, and they dripped down onto Russia's nose. Anybody looking at her wouldn't see the tears.

As they kept going and going, and drowned her and Russia out. Until it was just them. This was why she didn't like to think, but she couldn't help it, thoughts always came out of her head. It was difficult not to. She had to get out of here though; right out of her skull.

Hands shaking, trembling, she shuffled. Tried not to wake brother Russia, whose head lay in her lap. She pulled out her cellphone and tapped shakily, tremulously into it.

_my brother came home with a bottle of vodka and his pants off. we're gonna spend more quality time together._

She sent it, and whoosh it went. Ribbons were long and choking and sometimes Belarus was scared of curtains, the way prisoners are scared of leaving their cells. The reply was quick; too quick; he must be lying awake again. She knew he understood her aversion to thinking, even if he was about as good as her at not thinking. They thought so much they did stupid things.

_dont get carried away bellz u wan me 2 come help?_

He sure sounded stupid.

_no thank you. how are you?_

He was definitely awake now. Belarus kissed Russia's forehead and her phone burnt in her hand like a little lizard. Oh it moved. She worried about big brother.

_bad :( china is ngry wiv me_

_because you're selfish._

Big brother didn't know how to define Belarus' worry. He'd show up with clothes missing, and a bottle of vodka. Two actually. One in his lungs. If he moved too much it would break, and there would be ribbons everywhere. Belarus cried them both to death again, eyes dry because nobody knew how to feel for Belarus. Except him;

_u alywz make me feel better bellz._

A staccato pause.

Then he sent another text;

_r u kk?_

She typed back her reply, wiping at her eyes, nothing coming away, and tears dribbling down her face with snot, and grime, and muck and money and not-money.

_no thank you. how are you?_

And she broke. With Russia in her lap, she splintered into pieces again, with all the worries and fears of her heart glittering in the long shadows. Grinning demons with maverick claws. Belarus felt too much, far too much.

And the burn of a cell phone.

_im coming ovr_

Belarus sniffed the vodka on Russia's breath. Quality time together. Presently, America undid the locks on the door, because he always knew how and dumped himself on the nearby couch. Neither of them looked at each other, as America unpacked a greasy bag of sick ribbons.

"Don't open it." Belarus warned. "It smells dead."

"It is dead." America replied coolly, and pulled a burger out; passed it to Belarus, who seized it, only to violently cram it against the wall. Hit it. Slid down. Pickles and relish. Sesame seeds scattering.

Russia had wandered the streets drunk again, singing about lead and iron.

"How are you?" Belarus asked dully, and Russia jerked in his sleep. America reached out, and peeled Russia away from Belarus, as Russia gave an unconscious spasm. Violent. Aggressive. Punching and kicking and clawing.

America had once seen a nail-deep line down Belarus' face, and now he was sure to make sure Russia left no ribbons on Belarus' cheeks. He understood.

"Demons," America sighed, as Russia - drunk, asleep, lewd and hopeless - tried to rip his eyes out, but only managed to tear new holes in America's shirt. Soon it was barely hanging round his hips and neck; like a noose. Belarus started to cry again, but definitionally, crying requires tears. "Just the usual demons."

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><p><strong>May your quills be ever sharp.<strong>


End file.
